Light moves so slowly.
An offending bumper sticker skitters by on the asphalt river. By the time this indignity slams your visual cortex and your addled synapses flip it and decode, it is ancient history. But now engaged, your brain must formulate a response. Droplets of an idea cohere, organize into sounds, syllables that erupt from your wet chamber. Words burst forth, an insult perhaps, a manhood challenge, a piercing insight into the foolhardy nature of displaying personal opinion on the asses of automobiles. Your words take all the longer to erupt because you breathe and sip and masticate with that same sloppy hole. Your mood lurches like a paddleboat making a lumbering turn in a fierce current. Now you are clever and sour and living in the past.
By the time the light reaches you, the moment is gone.
Light is slow, but unencumbered. We carry all everything with us.
Drop your load, Sad Nomad.
